Unexplainable
by Love is a Topping
Summary: In which Steve doesn't even realize that something is missing. (oneshot, AU, Tony doesn't exist, implied Stony)


"_Who owns this tower?"_

"_SHIELD,"_

"_And the technology?"_

"_It's all SHIELD's,"_

"_But who made it?"_

"_How should I know? Some guy in a lab, I guess. Why?"_

"_Just being thorough – isn't that what SHIELD is all about?"_

"_It's also about keeping secrets. Don't go poking around where you aren't wanted, Cap."_

He sets the table every day. He is, after all, a man of routine. Each plate is arranged carefully, directly across from one another. He places each set separately – one spoon, one fork, one knife, one cup, one napkin – then moves to the next. Everything is perfectly even. Doesn't even realize it until halfway through the meal.

"_Did they count differently in the old days, Cap? You've got six places set for five people."_

It's a splash of cold water, a chill that travels the length of his spine and back. He stares at the offending utensils, offering no condolences. And they are still waiting on him. He doesn't offer an answer and doesn't offer a response, only passes the salad. They stare. He chews.

-x-x-x-

He wanders by the empty room – there are many empty rooms, but this one is _the_ empty room. It is the largest on the floor, but too far off to be on convenience to the team. The door opens without a noise. It smells clean, like when he awoke from his frozen slumber. A disgustingly clean scent that permeates his clothes and ruins any appetite he may have had. It is so out of place in the room – the unmade bed, the bulletin board stripped of papers, the annotated textbooks – in which someone, anyone, must have lived. He gazes at the desolate room, and feels…

He traces over the feel of mahogany desks and red silk sheets, then leaves without a trace, without a speck of dust. It remains, as it must have always been. Standing outside the door and placing a hand against the door, he trembles.

There is a rhythm to his motions – weave, duck, jab, jab, duck, right hook, repeat, repeat, repeat – and the bag lies abandoned on the basement ground. A hopeless sack that has fulfilled its duty and must be repaired to it can break all over again. It's sad; he can do nothing but stare at it and his bloody hands. Wipes his forehead to smear it with sweat and blood and sand – shower. He needs a shower. Instead, he sets up the next sandbag and repeats, repeats, remembers – it's a pattern, isn't it? All of life is a pattern, a rhythm, and a dance.

He feels like dancing, and asks aloud to play a song. It's silent everywhere but in his head. He hums along, breathless notes filling the still air. Metallic clanking with dull thuds and a deep bass asking him for a dance, follow my steps and hold your head high so we will dance the night away in a deep waltz and he is so surprised to learn the waltz in such a modern world a strange world he is a stranger and who is this stranger there is no one there yet he continues to ask: _will you play me a song?_

_As you wish_, no one responds. He stares up at the ceiling. There should be music playing. It is a large basement, or parking lot depending on how one interprets the lines on the floor and the multitude of desks. It just isn't right without music. That's what he's missing: music as loud as the echoes in his mind. There is a set of speakers in every corner; he could turn it up right now and work to his heart's content.

Instead, he sets up a bag and repeats the dance.

-x-x-x-

They are all too polite or too scared to snoop around their headquarters, the tower. All that is really used is the living area, the hallway with all their rooms, the kitchen, and the basement. All the fun is in the living quarters with videos and tablets and hi-definition surround sound thingymabobs and whatchakawhoseits. The first week was left up to exploration before they all grew tired of empty rooms. It is too large; they don't have enough stuff to fill it.

He lies on his bedroom floor, arms and legs spread wide like a Da Vinci drawing. He opens his hands so each finger is separate and clawing at the carpet – turns over and over like a child in a nightmare. Discomforting – that is the word for his state of mind. He makes sense out of nothing to fold in his knees like a babe and opens to arch his back and tries to find a comfortable position. Everything is silent. His limbs protest at the strange position; he should sleep on the bed. But he cannot. He should, and cannot. If he could scream, he would. Something wicked this way comes, he laughs breathlessly. It is a crinkle in the morning silence.

The alarm rings. He trips over himself, once, then twice, in order to stand up straight and he's America. He is triumphant, victorious, graceful, and amazing – _amazing_, he had whispered it in the night, clasping two hands together for now and never. The alarm is shut off. It's time for a morning jog. He is, after all, a creature of routine.

-x-x-x-

"_Howard made this."_

"_Yes,"_

"_But not all of it,"_

"_What's your point, Captain?"_

"_Who made it?"_

"_That's classified."_

"_Why?"_

"…"

"_Coulson, tell me why. Please,"_

"_Don't worry about it; it's perfectly safe."_

The first time he used a tablet, he shattered it. The team was showing him the basics: how to maneuver between applications, how to communicate, and how to use it for entertainment. The first test was for him to take a picture. He fails the first time. The wrong camera was chosen and he has an engaging picture of the off-white carpets and his shoe. They laugh and he laughs and tries not to fail again.

It is a moment in time for him. He and Thor stare intensely, focusing all their mental capabilities on this device from hell. Clint has his attention elsewhere, eyes caught scanning the room for a vantage point. Bruce hovers in the back, a book in one hand and a smile on his face. Even Natasha has been caught in the midst of a half-smirk, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. There they are; the Avengers, the heroes, the ones who hold and break and stick for now and never. All of them in a moment of time. Together. Perfect.

He stares down at his hands, wondering how the device had gone from picturesque to shattered in the blink of an eye. It pinches his skin, but no blood has been drawn. They stare and he stares at the two separate pieces in his hands.

Thor clasps his shoulder and praises his victory over the hell-device as the other stare disbelievingly. If they notice his hands trembling, no one says a thing. No one has time to as the light flashes and alarms ring. Suit up, he barks out orders and sets positions. Clint and Natasha, Thor and Bruce, and he'll go with-

Everyone hears the tremble in his voice. He has no explanation, other than to visibly shake his psyche into reality. Nothing has happened. He leaves the shattered pieces of broken machinery on the ground. They'll come back for it. He won't forget.

-x-x-x-

He lets Thor pick him up and pound his back. The team reassembles, bloodied and bruised like puzzle pieces with jagged edges that don't it quite right, but make an interesting sketch nevertheless. Natasha limps slightly toward the body – and he knows, even without her confirmation that it is a body and not a prisoner.

Shakes his head clear of the daze – _you might have a concussion_, Bruce worries. He brushes off the concern and promises to rest up.

_Acting recklessly_, Clint murmurs and he does not hear.

_Why did you try to save him? Why bother?_ He ignores the question outright, asking when the funeral is. Sees the picture of a boy so unlike the bitter person they fought – a cocky smile where they had seen a crazed look in his dark eyes.

He hates that look. He hates the smile on that picture. It is a small proceeding, with a mother and father mourning the loss of their child. They had lost him in more ways than one. He hates that picture. Arrogance is the worst sin, he believes. There is something about the playboy smile that sparks some raw emotion within him. He wants to cry. But the good soldier stands stoic and apologizes and offers condolences.

After the event, he can't even remember the boy's name.

-x-x-x-

They are relocated to the helicraft by Fury's orders. There is an international threat: a wayward god. Thor mopes and he acts as strange as normal – everything seems shot to hell. He paces metal floors more and more often. He is ready to go at a moment's notice, but they can do nothing but wait for Bruce to find him.

_It's always Germany_, he jokes but his grimace takes away from the humor. They catch up to him in Germany. It's a whirlwind of activity but he acts on auto-pilot. Says the lines that seem to form in his mind, and spews out comments before he can return them. Protect, that is America's job. And it works. They are victorious.

Emotions are high. He snaps more than once at each member of the team, always apologizing soon after. It is only stress. They do nothing but wait. Loki waits in the cage. Bruce waits for his calculations to bring fruit. He waits for something. The tesseract is nowhere to be found.

When Natasha talks with Loki, he throws his body to the floor, expecting some major damage. There is a moment of pause – the sound of what-the-fuck on Clint's lips. There is no explosion. The hulk is not released. Clint is not an enemy. He wonders where these thoughts come from. But the engines do fail.

A computer virus spreads through the helicarrier. Loki's cage is released, but he is not in it. The other god is. Bruce works quickly, attempting to counter the virus. Power is going out. They make an emergency landing in the middle of the ocean. And he knows they have to get back to the tower.

They worry for his sanity. But his sincere fear is convincing enough. They take an emergency plane, one of the few still working. The Avengers, minus Thor – but Thor will meet them there. Of that, he is sure. His body aches with the knowledge that they will be fighting for hours – _you can't know that_, Bruce worries the most. But Clint and Natasha share a contemplative look and he wonders how screwed he must be. A soldier's intuition is a decent tool to use. He tells Natasha to close the portal with Loki's staff. Cliff and Thor, take the skies. He and the hulk have to deal with the ground units. They fight. They protect. They win.

He receives news of a missile being fired at Manhattan, he laughs. They have nothing to defend against it. If he could jump on it and shield the rest of the world with his body, he would do so in a heartbeat. But this is bigger than him, bigger than America. And America can't take a nuclear strike. _Should've kept the portal open_, he wheezes between laughs but does not explain. They panic because he is obvious having a meltdown and there is no way the Avengers can stop a missile.

And all he can say is _this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong_. They sacrifice and win. Who is the sacrifice this time? No one can do it. There is nowhere for the missile to go. There is no last minute sacrifice to redirect the missile. There is no one. He needs one more. One more.

This is not the ending. They are supposed to eat shawarma and hate it. They are supposed to spend months cleaning up New York City and dealing with the fall out – superheroes, the world says, superheroes are a thing of the past. The Avengers are nothing more than a vigilante group. This is not the ending.

And something in him breaks. This is not right. Not only is it wrong, but it is also not right. The mind opens and he can see the falling red blur. There is panic in him – he's not slowing down, why is he falling so fast? And he has completely lost it. They stare as he breaks down completely and entirely. There is nothing in the sky but the white smoke drawn by the missile.

"_If this world is destroyed by its own stupidity, there would be nothing left to rule."_

There are three of them who can appreciate a healthy dose of irony. He wipes the tears from his eyes and struggles to stop his hysteric giggles. They prevented the apocalypse and now this shit happened, then more shit came to cover it up. Loki and Thor saved them. Aliens saved them from aliens and missiles. It's almost hilarious. They all saw Thor fly the missile up into the reopened portal, something only Loki could have done. And they all wonder_, what now? What enemy do we go after?_

He's the first one to thank and punch Loki. Enemies and friends, in the end, they are all the same – just people with opinions. He is the first one to offer Loki a place in Avenger's tower – _oh, is that what the A is for?_ Loki ponders and it is such a ridiculous statement that he knows that Loki knows what he doesn't know. And now the sixth plate will be used and the final room will be filled – but the empty room will still be empty, and he can live with that because its secrets have not yet unfolded. He cares little for Fury's opinion and Bruce's opinion and Clint's opinion and Natasha's opinion and maybe cares a little for Thor's opinion but certainly does not care for Loki's opinion and remains unmoving in the matter until they have to give in.

Loki joins the Avengers.

-x-x-x-

"_How have you come to join this group of warriors?"_

"_Pardon me?"_

"_Thor was offered a place on Midgard here, and the same to the green one. The two mortal warriors were employed by the founding group. So how have you come to join the Avengers?"_

"_It's a long story."_

"_I have much time, as per the rules of my 'probation'."_

It starts as he destroyed the clean smell and broke – fell into a world and time he had no reason to belong to. It starts as he plunges into cold, cold, nothingness. It starts as he holds onto short breaths, exhales, chokes in the scent of everything. It starts as he is strapped into the machine and is punctured with the life of a new man. It starts as he sets the table for six, cooks for six, draws all six. It begins and ends, now and never.

-x-x-x-

They agree that it is dangerous to have a former enemy sleep alone. Loki is given a room in their hall where they can all see him, watch him, strangle or stab or shoot him at the first sign of betrayal. So he moves out and into the empty room. He leaves his trace over the room, makes millions of creases and wrinkles in the bed sheets, breaks the still air with soft, panicked pants and nightmarish, silent screams. He lets packed bags sit in the closet. He sleeps on the left side of the king-sized bed. He lets his arm stretch out like a boy in the midst of a silk snow bed. Mostly, he finds himself staring into nothing. He traces scuffs in the desk and presses two hands and a face against cool glass windows. Absolutely nothing.

It is dark when he wanders the emptiness of the tower. He lingers past his old room and the soft snores of tired warriors. They don't realize it, but only a few months have passed and already, they have forgotten Loki's place as their enemy. They fall in line with one another like well-oiled cogs of a machine. He slips past the rooms, scouting the tower as the insomnia hits him yet again. Sure, there are warning signs and alarms, but nothing beats real human eyes. He looks around in the dark – it's too dark to see. He asks softly for lights, but gets none. No one ever responds.

He hobbles over to the couch, biting back a scream. Fumbling in the dark only results in a louder noise, but he gets the lamp on and stares unblinkingly into the light for a moment. He pulls jagged edges from the back of his heel; the blood stains the off-white carpet. The pieces in his hands gleam in the dim light; he can still see the picture. All the Avengers stand together, seemingly content. He throws the pieces into the trash and remembers that he forgot to clean it up.

It is nothing but an attempt to fill in the space with music. He bobs his head and taps his foot, letting the pencil run over the page with the beat of music. He sketches, drawing forth memory into the paper. It comes as a shock when Loki compliments his drawing ability. He covers the book, suddenly shy about the drawing. The god simply wills it into his hands – _magic_, he realizes – and holds it to the light. It is the picture they took so many months ago. He is the center, one side with Clint and Thor and the other side with Natasha. Bruce stands behind the couch, as does Loki. But directly behind him stands a man with both hands on his shoulders. While the others look just as they do in real life, the man has no details attached to him.

Loki questions if it will be Coulson or Director Fury, or if he leave room for a new avenger. It isn't finished, he grabs at the book. Loki leaves well alone, frustrated for some unexplainable reason. He tears the picture out and rediscovers it in the trash pile a week later.

-x-x-x-

He sets the table, methodically placing one plate after another: one fork, one spoon, one cup, one napkin, and one knife. He arranges everything as it should be. Halfway through the meal, he gets the question that he has been expecting.

"_Why are there seven places set for six people? I have not heard of this Midgardian custom."_

"_It is no custom, Brother. It is something our friend Steve does – a most unusual quirk."_

Loki looks at him with some sort of expectation – a reason, perhaps. But he offers an unapologetic shrug and motions to a seat. The former enemy pauses. He has always eaten alone, or disappeared for mealtimes. But dinner is early tonight. There are no protests, but only smiles. Loki sits next to his brother and they prepare for their first meal together. He picks up the pitcher of lemonade to pour drinks. He wishes it was this peaceful for now and never.

"_Well, I think we should have a toast. You know, since we're eating together for the first time."_

_"To a slightly more peaceful world."_

_"I'll drink to that."_

They raise their glasses and look to him. Even Loki has his glass raised. He looks at the lemonade, too murky to see his reflection in. The empty seat is directly across from him. But before their smiles can turn to worry, he lifts the cup.

"_We're finally a complete team," Bruce nudges him and smiles._

His glass shatters.

Blood, glass, and lemons make for a painful concoction.


End file.
